


Through the Glass, Darkly

by The_Bookkeeper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Drama, Hellhounds, M/M, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:25:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6842635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Bookkeeper/pseuds/The_Bookkeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean should really think twice before shooting magical objects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh. Hey, Supernatural fans. It's been a while. (Fans who were hoping for something else; don't worry. I actually wrote most of this a while ago and just polished it up before posting it. Everything else is still on track.) In case anyone hasn't noticed yet, I'm pretty into this concept, so here it is in yet another form.
> 
> Set in season 6, after 6.13, Unforgiven. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!
> 
> Warnings: language, alcohol, gore, violence. Basically if the show were R-rated.

Dean was glad to have Sam back. Real Sam, who cared and pouted and beat himself up over stupid crap. In fact, 'glad' didn't even begin to cover it. Losing Sam (again) had felt like dying (again). Being with a hollowed-out shell that looked like him had almost been worse. Despite all the other crap they had to deal with, he was grateful beyond words to have his little brother alive and re-souled and more or less whole, however temporary that wholeness might prove to be. He really, really was.

But seriously, if the kid didn't stop ragging on him like an overprotective mother he was going to duct tape his damn mouth shut.

". . . cannot _believe_ you would be so reckless. Actually, never mind, I can, because it's you. Dean "shoot first and ask questions later" Winchester. We didn't even know what sort of stuff she was into. We still don't. Anything could have happened, Dean. _Anything._ "

"Yeah, well, it didn't," Dean snapped. "She's dead, the curse – or whatever," he amended when Sam made a noise in the back of his throat, "is broken, we're both fine – let's just call it a job well done."

"Yeah, sure. Just next time maybe give me a little warning before you blow up a freaking altar, okay? I almost got impaled by a cat's spine."

"Hey man, I didn't know the thing was going to explode," Dean defended himself lightly, glancing at his brother out of the corner of his eye. It had been a couple weeks since the seizure, but he was still keeping a close watch for signs of a repeat performance.

"Whatever," Sam said with a roll of his eyes, but a moment later he quirked his lips upward in a silent message. _'I know you're worrying, and you don't have to. I'm okay.'_

It would have been more reassuring if Sam's definition of 'okay' hadn't included, among other things, experiencing head-splitting death visions, being jacked up on demon blood, and having no soul. Still, his wordless reassurance seemed to be proving genuine enough as the returned to the motel and set about getting cleaned up. Sam used his long legs to slip into the bathroom before Dean even had the door closed behind them, and Dean grumbled a half-hearted complaint as he set his weapons aside and began to strip off his grimy outer layers.

When he was down to his T-shirt and jeans he reached into his bag and frowned.

"Sam, have you been messing with my stuff?"

"You're the one with boundary issues, remember?" Sam called back from the bathroom.

Dean's frown deepened. He had been sure he had a half-empty bottle of Jack buried beneath his clothes. He wasn't far enough gone to have drunk it without remembering; not since he got Sam back. Come to think of it, he was sure he had tossed his bag down on the other side of the bed.

"Dude, seriously!"

"Seriously," Sam responded, cracking the door open to poke his head out, revealing a sliver of naked torso and denim-clad legs. "I didn't touch your stuff." He pushed the door open further. "Why, did you lose something? When did you –"

Dean wasn't sure what alerted him. Maybe it was a whiff of sulfur, or a ripple in the air, or the sound of movement. Maybe it was some sixth-sense memory, ingrained in him from the first searing pain of teeth on flesh. All he knew was that there was suddenly a hellhound in the corner of the room, and it was looking at Sam.

" _Sam_!"

The desperate cry was ripped from his throat, but it was too late, they were both unarmed and Sam didn't even have a fucking _shirt_ and Dean was leaping for his gun but he could hear the hellhound surging forward and Sam was falling and Sam was _down_ and Sam was –

Sam was laughing.

It was a real laugh, too, not an _I've-completely-snapped-and-I'm-going-to-laugh-while-I-get-torn-to-shreds_ laugh. Just a normal Sammy laugh, a little breathless and disbelieving but not crazy.

"It's okay, Dean," said Sam, grinning at him from where he was still sitting, shirtless on the bathroom floor. His hands moved in the seemingly empty air in front of him, as if . . . son of a bitch, he was actually scratching the damn thing's ears. "He's just –" He sputtered and turned his head away, still smiling. "He's just saying hello."

"Saying hello," Dean repeated flatly, lowering his weapon. "A hellhound. Is just saying hello."

Sam shrugged unhelpfully, still fondling the thing, which was apparently trying to lick his face.

"Maybe he's just an invisible dog," he suggested.

"Oh, it's a hellhound."

Dean spun towards the new (weirdly familiar) voice, bringing up his gun while Sam scrambled to his feet, and found himself face-to-face with . . . himself. His own eyes glared at him over the barrel of his own gun, and the long-discarded amulet gleamed on top of a T-shirt identical to the one he was wearing.

The shifter, or whatever, must have managed to get the door open while Dean was distracted. At its shoulder was something which looked a hell of a lot like Sam, though this version was fully-clothed – it was also unarmed, and seemed alarmingly okay with that as it peered at them with a really, really good imitation of Sam's calculating look.

"What the hell are you?" Dean demanded, in unison with not-him.

They both stopped, glaring at each other. Behind Dean, the hellhound whined. Not-Sam whistled softly, and Dean tensed as he felt the beast brush against his leg on its way to its master. The thing came all the way up to his hip.

"What the hell's wrong with your dog, Sam?" Not-Dean questioned, never shifting his gaze. "Why aren't these two shredded?"

Dean risked a glance over his shoulder at Sam, who looked just as confused as he felt. Dean could almost hear his brain working, alternating between judging the distance to the nearest weapon and trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

"I think it's because they're not intruders," Not-Sam said. His hand was moving at his side, absently carding through invisible fur.

"Of course we're not fucking _intruders_ ," Dean growled.

"You sure look like intruders from where I'm standing," Not-Dean snarled back. Not-Sam sighed.

"Look, can we just put the guns down for half a second?"

"You know something I don't?" Not-Dean asked sharply. His aim didn't waver, and neither did Dean's.

"It's more of a guess, really," said Not-Sam, and damn, whatever these things were they were _good_. The only other Not-Sam which had been able to mimic him this well had been Meg, and she had had access to all his memories and brain patterns or whatever. "That witch we just killed – she was messing with timelines and stuff, right? Switching people with versions of themselves who had died when here they lived, or lived when here they died."

Sam sucked in a breath as if in sudden realization. Not-Dean shot him a cold look which made Dean want to rip his doppelganger in half.

"Yeah. Your point?"

Not-Sam opened his mouth, but it was the real Sam who answered.

"They're us. Or . . . we're you. From an alternate timeline."

Dean and his double stared at each other for a long moment, and then, slowly, the other him lowered his gun.

"Huh."

"Dean." Sam had moved closer to him, and Dean could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. "Look at them. They're not shifters; they can't be demons. They're us."

Dean looked. The other Sam, plaid shirt over solid muscle, hair tucked behind his ears, fascination visible in twitching eyebrows and bright eyes. The other him, ivory-handled Colt at his side, tension in his stance, still glaring at Dean with suspicion and distaste. Sam's hand on a hellhound's back. The amulet glinting on Dean's chest.

He lowered his gun.

"What. The. Fuck."

Ten minutes later, Dean was really beginning to regret shooting that altar.

They _were_ intruders, it turned out. The clean shirt Sam pulled from his duffel was one which had been shredded on a hunt months ago. The motel room – the damn _universe_ they were in belonged to Other Sam and Other Dean, which at least explained the missing whiskey. It was a shame, too, because Dean could really use a drink right about now. Other Dean seemed to share the sentiment, and he dropped into a chair with a frustrated noise.

"Think it's time we phone a friend, Sammy," he declared. "And don't give me that 'he has bigger fish to fry' crap," he added before Other Sam could even open his mouth. "This is a freaking Great White and you know it."

Other Sam gave a long-suffering sigh and closed his eyes, while normal Sam glanced between them with his brow furrowed.

"Who are you –?" he began, but Other Sam cut him off.

"Hey, Cas, we've got a bit of a situation down here. We'd appreciate it if you could come take a look."

There was a rustle of wings which made Dean jump, and a very familiar figure appeared in the center of the room. Blue eyes flickered over the scene, from barefoot Sam and half-stripped Dean on the two beds, to Other Dean seated at the rickety table, and finally came to rest on Other Sam, standing by the door and looking slightly sheepish.

"Oh," said Cas – or Other Cas, Dean guessed, because his gravelly voice and impassive expression may have been the same as ever but his Cas didn't appear in a room full of Winchesters and look to _Sam._

The hellhound growled.

"Shut it, Cujo!" Dean snapped, trying to let anger drown out the bolt of terror which shot through him.

"Don't bother," Other Dean advised him, with a glare in the invisible dog's general direction. "It only listens to Sam."

"He only listens to _Latin_ ," Other Sam corrected, in tones of one who had had this conversation before. "Just because you can't be bothered – never mind. Cas. Thoughts?"

"This is certainly . . . unusual. It appears that versions of you and Dean have been transported here from an alternate timeline."

"Yeah, we got that much, thanks," said Dean impatiently. "Alternate _how_?"

Cas – Other Cas, _Other_ Cas – turned his head to regard him. There was a distance there which hadn't existed with the proper Cas in ages, a distance which Dean hadn't even noticed disappearing until it was back, and he rose from the bed without making a conscious decision to do so. It did nothing to lessen the feeling that he was being looked down upon.

"Explaining that would require a detailed analysis of advanced physics, causality, and the nature of Time," Cas stated, and if Dean hadn't known him (or _some_ him, or whatever) he might have missed the edge of condescension in his tone.

"Fine," Dean said, an edge of entirely different kind in his own voice. "Let's start simple. Why the _hell_ does Sam have a pet hellhound? How the fuck does that even happen?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed, rising as well. "Let's start there."

Other Cas tilted his head to the side in puzzlement. Behind him, Other Dean and Other Sam exchanged dark looks, and Dean felt dread trickle down his spine even before Other Cas spoke.

"I would have thought that was obvious. In this reality, Sam is the King of Hell."


	2. Chapter 2

Sam couldn't breathe.

Both Deans were yelling, at each other, at the Other him, at the Other Cas. He heard 'got to be _kidding_ me' and 'don't you fucking touch him' and 'son of a _bitch_ ' and he couldn't tell them apart and he couldn't think and he couldn't breathe and there was a dog nuzzling his side and whining concernedly and that was a _hellhound_ and it was _his_ and something in his head was itching, itching, _itching_ –

" _Quiet_!"

Cas' voice rent the air like a thunderclap, its echoes dying in the sudden silence. Cas (Other Cas, their Cas never looked at Sam like that, with warmth and respect) was at his side, and he must have mojo-ed his way there, because Dean (his Dean, chest achingly empty of anything glinting and golden) let out a startled curse and surged forward.

"I wouldn't harm Sam," Other Cas told Dean sharply. "Not any version of him." He turned to Sam, face and tone softening. "Sam. What's wrong?"

"Sammy?" Dean questioned, his brow furrowing as he added his own gaze to Castiel's.

"I, um . . ." Sam swallowed. Whatever had been licking at the edges of his mind had retreated, and now he was left squirming under the double weight of Dean's familiar worry and Cas' distinctly _un_ familiar concern. "Nothing. It's nothing." He stood. Cas didn't take a step back. In their universe, it had been months since they had to remind him about personal space. "Just, uh . . . maybe we should go someplace else to talk about this. It's, uh . . . kind of tight in here."

He hadn't realized how true it was until he said it. He was more than accustomed to feeling too big for any given space, but this motel room was way too small for two of him, plus Cas, plus a hellhound ( _Jesus_ , he had a fucking _hellhound_ ), plus two Deans who both looked about ready to turn this into a new contender for the most surreal bloodbath of their lives.

Cas was nodding in agreement.

"I can transport us elsewhere." When he looked over his shoulder for approval, his eyes sought Other Sam – who exchanged a glance with Other Dean. At least that still made sense, and Sam could easily read the downward twitch of Other Him's lips ( _'I don't care; you?'_ ) and the minute shrug of Other Dean's shoulders ( _'Why the hell not.'_ ).

"Alright, Cas," said Other Sam ( _King of Hell he was the King of Hell how did that happen how could he_ _ **how**_ ). "Take us to Bobby's."

There was a stomach-turning shift, and the next moment Sam was stumbling as the thin carpet beneath his feet changed to linoleum. Bobby's curse reached his ears an instant before he forced his eyes back into focus and found himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

"Do not be alarmed," said Cas, with his characteristic sense of reassurance.

"It's fine, Bobby," said Other Dean, more helpfully. "It's just us. And . . . more us."

"Gee, thanks," said Bobby sarcastically. "That clears everything right up." Still, he lowered the shotgun and gave them each a wary nod. "Sam. Dean. Anyone wanna explain to me why I'm seeing double?"

"We're from, um, an alternate universe," Sam offered, barely believing he was saying that out loud. God, their lives were weird.

"Those two had a transporter malfunction," said Other Dean, gesturing at the two of them with one of the beers he pulled from Bobby's fridge while he handed the other to Other Sam. "Went all 'Mirror, Mirror' on us."

"At least nobody has a goatee," Dean pointed out. Other Dean grinned while Other Sam caught Sam's eye with an exasperated, amused look. _Dean is using a wrinkle in the fabric of reality to make Star Trek references with himself. Typical._ Other Sam raised his beer to his lips –

– Bobby's eyes widened in alarm, his bark of "Sam, wait!" coming a second too late –

— and the bottle crashed to the ground as Other Sam doubled over, wheezing in pain.

"Dammit Bobby!" snapped Dean's voice, but it wasn't Dean, it was Other Dean, glaring over Other Sam's shoulder as he struggled to keep him upright, "You've gotta warn us when you lace the beers!"

"Well maybe if you'd give me half a second before you start raiding my fridge," Bobby was replying without heat, but it seemed to be coming from far away, and Sam's eyes were still fixed on the Other Him, watching his own shoulders shudder and hitch, smoke rising from his own mouth, hearing his own lungs gasp for air, and it was so, so familiar; this had happened before; _Lucifer liked to make him watch sometimes, pulling his eyes from their sockets just so that he could see himself, his own pain, his own weakness, whispering in his ear how pretty he was when he screamed, while beneath it all was the thought of what MomDadJessDeanDean_ _ **Dean**_ _would think if they could see him like this_ –

"Sam! Snap out of it, Sammy, c'mon, don't you dare check out on me again –"

Dean. That was Dean's voice. Those were Dean's hands, grasping his arms too tight, Dean's face above him ( _when had he ended up on the floor?_ ) . . . Dean's eyes shining with desperation. Sam had to fix that.

"I'm fine," he managed through the slowly receding haze of blood and agony in his head, pushing himself up. "I'm okay."

Dean's sag of relief was so brief that if Sam hadn't been so close he might have missed it. A moment later Dean was dragging him the rest of the way to his feet, grip and voice rougher than necessary.

"Dammit, Sam. I thought we learned our lesson about scratching."

"We did. I did. I swear." Sam glanced over Dean's shoulder. Other Sam was still somewhat pale and was standing against the counter, well away from the puddle of beer on the floor, watching him. Cas stood in the middle of the kitchen, wavering between the two of them, looking almost uncertain.

"What the hell was that?" Other Dean demanded. He looked pissed, but that was pretty much Dean's default reaction to anything he didn't understand, particularly if it involved Sam.

"None of your damn business," Dean snarled, rounding on his Other Self.

"Put them away, both of you," Bobby ordered. "Sam – both Sams – sit down before you fall down."

"I'm –" Sam began in unison with himself.

" –fine, I know," said Bobby, rolling his eyes. "I could tell from all the coughing and collapsing. Sit _down_ , you idjits."

They sat.

"You," Bobby began, pointing at Other Sam. "Holy water shouldn't knock you on your ass like that. You been sleeping and eating?"

"Yes," said Other Sam defensively, simultaneous with Other Dean's dark 'No.' Other Sam glared, while Cas' frown deepened in concern.

"You ought to take care of yourself," the angel stated, a touch of rebuke in his tone. Other Sam turned his glare on him, eyes darkening with a dreadfully familiar power. Cas held his gaze. The air crackled. Sam's stomach turned, and he felt rather than saw Dean tense.

"Get a room, you two," Other Dean griped, and the moment was broken. Other Sam dropped his gaze to the table, more sulky than dangerous ( _did Sam really look like that?_ ), and the room relaxed around him.

"Well now that _that's_ settled," said Bobby sarcastically. "Castiel, don't suppose you can just shove these two back to where they belong?"

"I believe so," Cas replied. "With time. I could . . . look into it." Again, he shot an almost-not-quite questioning look at Other Sam, who nodded tiredly.

"Go on, Cas. Wait," he added. "Come here, first."

Cas obeyed, and Other Sam pulled him into a kiss. Other Dean rolled his eyes while Dean gaped, and Sam felt a jolt through his entire body. _There but for – there –_

Before he could form a coherent thought, they broke apart and Cas disappeared in a flutter of wings.

" _You_ ," Bobby said, turning to Other Sam as if nothing had happened, "go take a goddamn nap. You too," he added, and the smug smirk slid off Other Dean's face. "I don't want to see either of you until I call you for dinner. And don't you roll your eyes at me!"

Other Dean groaned.

"Fine, fine. We're going. C'mon, Sammy." He hauled his brother to his feet. "What about those two?" he asked, pausing in the doorway as Other Sam shook off his hand and disappeared into the living room.

"I'll take care of it, now get!"

Other Dean held up his hands in mock surrender and followed Other Sam.

"Okay," said Bobby, turning back to Sam and Dean. "You wanna tell me what the hell's going on with you?"

"No," said Dean flatly.

" _Dean_ ," Sam rebuked him, put off. He got that Dean didn't like to talk about this kind of thing, but this was _Bobby_. Close enough, anyway. Dean shot him a sideways glance, and Sam understood. He was scared, terrified of setting off another hell-seizure, or worse. Sam pushed his chair back from the table and rose. "Look, I should probably start researching all this anyway; try and figure out a way out of this mess. You get Bobby caught up."

He waited for Dean's reluctant nod of acknowledgement and left before he could change his mind. Bobby would bully the information out of him. He'd always been good at that.

Sam wandered into Bobby's living room, scanning the room for differences. He couldn't find any. It looked the same as always; books and old furniture and dust. He glanced up, and there was still a Devil's Trap on the ceiling. _Holy water shouldn't knock you on your ass like that._ He shivered.

He tried to research. Thought about it, anyway. But his eyes kept drifting to the doorway, and before he knew it he was mounting the stairs, some horrible curiosity dragging him onwards. He paused outside a familiar door, his heart in his throat.

"It's open," said his own voice, casual, almost bored. Sam pushed the door open.

Other Sam was sitting on the bed, ankles crossed on top of the covers, a book in one hand while the other hung out of sight on the other side of the bed. He glanced up as Sam took a cautious step inside.

"Hey. You okay?" he asked, setting his book to the side. "That thing in the kitchen, that was, uh, pretty dramatic."

"It's a long story," said Sam, taking another step forward. This was beyond surreal. He had dealt with his own lookalikes before, but none of them had looked so . . . concerned. "I'm fine."

"Right," said Other Sam, his lips quirking as if they were sharing an inside joke. "Look, you should probably sit down anyway."

" _Jesus_!" Sam jerked backwards, stumbling as he hit the wall. Other Sam had gestured towards the battered desk chair with the hand which had previously been obscured by the bed – or rather, with the mangled mess of meat and bone which had once been a hand. _Shit._ This couldn't be real. This was a dream. This couldn't –

"Oh," said Other Sam, blinking at the gory stump. "Sorry." He twitched, and his hand was whole again, flexing experimentally. "Theron gets a little enthusiastic sometimes. Theron! Ascende!"

The bed shifted, and Other Sam grinned. It looked like a mirror cracking.

"You really can't see him?" he asked, looking at Sam, and the color of his eyes was familiar, bright, clear, hazel, but the expression in them was . . . wrong. Sam had seen evil in his own eyes, demons and nightmares and the Devil himself, and this wasn't it. He had seen himself broken, after Jess, after Dean, after the Apocalypse, and this wasn't that, either. It wasn't malice and it wasn't pain but it wasn't _right,_ it wasn't right, he needed out, out, out –

"I need some air," he said, sounding tight and distant to his own ears, and fled down the stairs and out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam wandered down the dusty road towards town, shivering a little in the frigid February air. He should have grabbed a heavier jacket, but he had just needed out of that house, away from that cracked reflection. It occurred to him he wasn't sure just _how_ cracked, and he hoped his double would remember to tell Dean where he was. Everything was tense enough to begin with; the last thing any of them needed was for either Dean to get even more riled up.

Dean was going to be pissed at him in any case, but that wasn't anything new. Sam kicked broodingly at a loose stone. In the yard up ahead, some kids looked up. The Sangreys, Sam thought they were called. There were a whole lot of them, but only three were outside today, two teenagers and the youngest, a toddler. He observed them idly as he approached.

The oldest one, a girl, grabbed the other teenager by the arm and spoke in his ear. He quickly scooped up the protesting toddler and carried him inside. The girl stayed where she was – or held her ground, rather, because Sam recognized the tension in her stance, fear and defiance competing for dominance.

Weird. He didn't remember her being so standoffish. But then, they were in a different universe. And anyway, maybe he was thinking of her sister. He'd never paid much attention to the family, and the kids didn't talk to strangers.

He nodded to her as he passed, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. She nodded back, sharply. He could feel her eyes on his back as he walked away.

There was a convenience store just up the road. The clerk was usually hung over and surly and the milk was questionable even by gas station standards, but the alcohol and processed food were as acceptable as anywhere else, and Sam had been in this situation often enough to know that a six pack and some peanut m&m's could go a long way.

The bell tinkled overhead as he stepped from the clear cold air into the sticky warmth of the store. At the counter, the clerk gave him a cursory glance – and did a double-take. He quickly dropped his eyes back to his newspaper when Sam caught his gaze, but Sam could still sense them flickering back to him every few seconds as he self-consciously grabbed the peace offerings.

As he approached the counter he saw that the clerk's hands were shaking, his face the color of the dairy products which cheerfully sprinted past their expiration dates it the back.

A chill ran down Sam's spine.

"W-will that be all for you, s-sir?" the clerk questioned, still avoiding eye contact. His nametag said 'Dwayne.' Back in Sam's universe, it had always said 'Hell's Angel' in elaborated rendered sharpie. Dean made fun of it.

"Yeah, that's it," said Sam distractedly. "Oh. Uh." He dug out his wallet and bit back a curse. Couldn't use fake credit cards; they were here too regularly. "Sorry, I'm kind of short on cash," he said, as apologetically as he could manage. He picked up the jumbo-sized m&m's. "I'll just get a smaller –"

"It's yours," said the clerk quickly. He had acquired a faintly green tinge around his mouth.

Sam blinked.

"No, it's fine, you don't have to –"

"Just – take it!" The edge of hysteria in the clerk's voice seemed to alarm him almost as much as it did Sam. "I mean – really, it's no trouble. My treat." He attempted a smile. It didn't work.

". . . sure," said Sam at last. "Thanks." He stepped back into the winter air, mind racing.

This wasn't right. The grumpy, irreverent clerk suddenly fearful and deferential, and that girl – she was the same one he remembered, he was sure of that now. He used to linger as he passed their house to listen to her sing to her baby brother. She had always smiled at him before. But now . . .

They knew. It was the only explanation. They knew he was the King of Hell, and they were terrified.

"Sam."

Sam jumped at the voice, and realized that he had been standing motionless outside of the store. His fingers were going numb.

"Sheriff Mills! It's, uh, it's been a while."

Sheriff Mills' eyebrows drew together, and Sam winced internally. Maybe it hadn't been a while, in this universe. Or maybe it was his friendly tone which was out of place. She was keeping a cautious distance, hand on her holster, stance wary.

"How're you feeling today, Sam?" she asked, very calmly.

"Fine," said Sam automatically. "I'm fine. It's just, uh . . . it's just been a really weird day."

It must have been the right thing to say, because Sheriff Mills relaxed somewhat, her hand sliding away from her gun. Her face softened, and she nodded to the items in Sam's hands.

"You and Dean get in a tiff?"

"Not yet," said Sam with a rueful smile. "It's more of a preemptive strike."

"Doesn't know you're here?" Sheriff Mills deduced, and she smiled at his shrug. "C'mon, then. I'll walk you back to Bobby's."

Sam knew better than to tell her she didn't have to.

"So," he began as the started back up the road, and then stopped, unsure what he meant to say.

"So," Sheriff Mills agreed.

"Did I, uh . . ." He didn't know how to ask anything without tipping her off to what was happening or disrupting the timeline or something like that. Thankfully, he didn't have to.

"Did you do something to Dwayne? No; just gave him a healthy respect for you and your brother."

"How –?"

"You ask the same thing every few weeks," she told him matter-of-factly. "And I'll tell you the same thing I always do: you are one scary bastard, Sam Winchester. But I've never seen you hurt anyone or anything that didn't have it coming."

Sam nodded, kicking aimlessly and a stray pebble. So his double had a tendency to – what? Lose memories? Black out? Disassociate? Something. And his double was a just Lord, at least the extent he let Sheriff Mills see. That was . . . good.

He supposed.

Sam had believed in mercy, once; and grace. Sometimes he let himself believe in them still, and they tasted almost like hope. He wondered where they had split; if his counterpart had ever knelt in Pastor Jim's parish and prayed for salvation; if he had ever turned up the shower so Dean wouldn't hear and begged for forgiveness on his knees.

"You alright in there, Sam?"

Sheriff Mills' question and gentle nudge shook him from his thoughts.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just . . ."

"Sam! Goddammit, Sam."

Dean was striding towards them along the blacktop, scowling.

Sheriff Mills departed with a reassuring pat on the arm and a mouthed 'good luck,' and Sam sighed. Time to face the music.

Dean's scowl deepened as they neared each other. Dean who always treated him like he was about to break, but never seemed to see the ways he was actually cracking. Dean who meant so well and tried so hard and never, never understood. Sam looked at his brother's tense jaw and clenched fists and thought, _stop, stop, stop; this isn't working; you deserve better_.

What he said was,

"Got you something."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean caught the m&m's in midair. He kept glaring at Sam, but he did rip open the bag a pour a few into his mouth, and if Sam chose to take that as an acceptance of his unspoken apology, then so be it. He was pissed, but he didn't really want to start a fight in the freaky-ass universe. And anyway, Sam always did weird, indecipherable shit like this when he had stuff on his mind. Yelling at him wouldn't make him stop doing it, it would only make him feel worse when he did.

Dean figured Sam felt bad enough these days.

Sam was trailing behind him, hands stuffed in his pockets, feet scuffing against the road as it changed from pavement to dirt. Dean could feel him at his shoulder, see him from the corner of his eye. It reminded him of when they were kids, and he swallowed the thought before it could cut too deeply.

"Don't fucking wander off like that," he muttered as they turned the corner to Bobby's.

"Sorry. I told . . . y'know, the other one, to tell you where I went."

"He did. Fucking creepy bastard," Dean added, which didn't even halfway cover his feelings on the subject. "Sheriff Mills tell you anything interesting?"

Sam shrugged in Dean's peripheral vision.

"He's just . . . me. There but for the grace of God, I guess."

There was something strange and cracked in Sam's voice, and Dean nearly turned to see what the hell was going on in the kid's head, but Sam's sudden, steel grip on his arm stopped him.

"Wait. Look."

Dean looked. They had reached the foot of Bobby's porch, and Sam was staring at the packed earth in front of it. Footprints. There were too many footprints. Sam's huge print, and Dean's, and Bobby's worn bootprint – and three more sets. Unfamiliar.

_Shit._

He exchanged a look with Sam. Silently, he made his way up the stairs and across the porch, avoiding the boards which Bobby intentionally left creaky. He could feel Sam behind him, a mirror to his own movements. The door was ajar, and they slipped inside without a noise.

Inside, there were signs of a struggle, and as they edged towards the sitting room, someone was laughing. It was a terrible, mirthless sound, and Dean froze in his tracks. It was his own voice.

"What's so goddamn funny, pretty boy?" an unfamiliar voice inquired. "You looking forward to getting strung up next to your demon spawn baby brother?"

"I just think it's hilarious that you think that's gonna happen," Other Dean replied, as Dean hazarded another step forward to peer around the corner. Other Dean was tied to a chair, held at gunpoint by a hunter Dean didn't recognize. There were two others, as well, one keeping Bobby in a similar situation and the other keeping his gun trained on the stairs as he hurriedly added another Devil's Trap to the myriad that were already chalked onto the floors and ceilings.

_Idiots_ , Dean thought, his eyes finding the elaborate Devil's Trap above the doorway that had trapped Meg in their universe. If Other Sam could get around that, did they really think their makeshift bullshit would stop him?

"They're going to die," said Sam from behind him, so lowly that he barely heard. He glanced back to see that he had lowered his gun, his haunted gaze drifting to the ceiling. Above them, a floorboard creaked.

Everyone froze for an instant, and then the three captors jolted into action.

"Showtime, boys," the apparent leader said, leaping back from the stairs and readying his shotgun. Other Dean let out another barking, humorless laugh.

"Ever been torn apart by a Hellhound, boys? It's no fun, let me tell you."

"Shut up," the leader said, but one of his henchmen, the one with a bad haircut, looked uneasy.

"Ever thought about it, Curly?" Other Dean addressed him, still grinning widely. "What'll happen to you if all your amateur-night occultism lets you down? Ever wondered what the King of Hell looks like when he's pissed off?"

Another floorboard creaked, this time at the top of the stairs.

"Might as well come out, Sammy," the leader called, cocking his revolver.

Dean's breath caught. It was the Colt.

"Nothing personal, you understand," the leader continued, taking aim at the doorway. "It's gotta be done."

"Nothing personal," Other Sam agreed mildly, and stepped into view.

To his credit, the leader didn't hesitate. His finger tightened on the trigger one, two, three times in quick succession, the cracks of the gunshots nearly drowned out by the blood rushing in Dean's ears as he stood frozen and watched the bullets which could kill anything hurtle towards the man who was almost his brother –

And they stopped.

The bullets hung in the air while Other Sam examined them, twisting them this way and that with a twitch of his fingers.

"Huh," he said. "You know, that might have worked."

Bad Haircut was the first to move, bolting for the door. Other Sam whistled sharply and he went down under two hundred pounds of invisible canine, his whimpers of fear mingling with the hellhound's heavy breathing, inches from Dean and Sam's vantage point. A wave of Other Sam's hand and Other Dean and Bobby were free. Other Dean disarmed the stunned leader of the troop effortlessly, and the last hunter dropped his weapons and fell to his knees.

"I'm sorry," he said, eyes on the ground, and Dean's stomach twisted. "I'm sorry. Please."

Other Sam stepped forward, and crouched down in front of him.

"I'm sorry, too."

The _snap_ of the hunter's neck echoed across the room.

Dean's stomach heaved. Behind him, he could hear Sam murmuring softly to himself. _Our Father, who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name . . ._

"C'mon," Dean said quietly, turning away as Other Sam rounded on the leader. "Sam. C'mon." He grabbed his brother's arm and hauled him towards the front door, stubbornly ignoring the sounds that followed them. He dragged them both outside, closing the door behind them.

Sam sank onto the front step, head in his hands. Dean dropped down beside him and shoved his arm.

"Sammy. Hey. You alright? Not scratching, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"Sure. And you look it, too." Dean sighed, staring out across the junkyard. It looked the same as ever; cars and dirt and even the old chains that used to hold the dogs. He wondered what happened to them in this Universe. He wondered what happened to everyone. "Look, that's not you in there. Not you, not me, hell, not even Bobby."

"Isn't it?" Sam asked, looking up, and he had those depths in his eyes, the ones that meant he was thinking thoughts Dean couldn't even begin to fathom. And Dean felt, once again, helpless.

"No," he said firmly. "They're just . . . some guys, alright? Just some guys who look kinda like us."

"That's wrong."

They both jumped at the sudden voice.

"Dammit, Cas!"

Cas – Other Cas – continued as if he hadn't spoken.

"They are you. They have the same souls."

"My brother isn't the goddamn King of Hell," Dean snapped, rising to his feet.

"No," Other Cas agreed. "But he might have been. And you would have loved him anyway."

A muffled scream came from inside, followed by a laugh. Dean's laugh.

"Why are you here, Cas?" Sam asked tiredly.

"I have discovered the point at which your timelines diverged. I believe, given this information, I can send you back to your own timeline."

"Fine," said Dean angrily. "Fine. I'm done with this fucking Universe. Do it."

"Wait," said Sam, rising as well. "Where did they diverge, Cas?"

"There was a demon," said Other Cas. "In this timeline, it was killed by a hunter several years ago, shortly before Dean was cast into Perdition. In yours, by chance, it escaped."

There was a beat of silence.

"Bullshit," Dean said. "Some random demon dies, and Sam becomes King of Hell? That's it? Bullshit."

"Not 'some random demon,'" Other Cas corrected, turning a cold look on him. "I believe you knew it as Ruby."

Sam went pale.

"No," he said. "No, she – no!"

"Sammy –" Dean tried, reaching for him, but Sam shook him off.

"Send us back," Sam demanded. He was trembling. "Cas. Send us back to our own timeline, right now."

Cas nodded, and reached towards them. Dean felt a cool fingertip on his temple, and then –

"The hell? Where the hell did you two come from?"

"Bobby!"

And it was Bobby, real Bobby, scowling at them over the railing of the porch.

"Bobby," Dean repeated, relieved. "Hang on, I'll explain in a sec – Sam, you okay?"

And Sam looked at him with eyes like the sea and said,

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

And Dean said,

"Okay. Okay, good."

And he knew that Sam knew that he knew it was a lie; and he knew they both knew he wouldn't do a damn thing about it. Dean looked at his brother's hunched shoulders and shaking hands and thought,

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. This isn't working; you deserve better._

And he didn't say anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think! If you want to know a little more about how Other Sam and Dean and Cas came to be, check out my Boy King series. Thanks again.


End file.
